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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468514">In Vivid Color</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeloncewas/pseuds/angeloncewas'>angeloncewas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bad Parenting, Colors, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hogwarts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's not as dark as it sounds, My First AO3 Post, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Physical Abuse, they're kids but tom's already on his bs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:40:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,319</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468514</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeloncewas/pseuds/angeloncewas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>From her Azkaban cell, Dolores Umbridge reflects on where it all went wrong.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In Vivid Color</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is a very, very old work. like middle school old. i'd meant it to be a series and i did a lot of research into the logistics (ages, how realistic the whole scenario could be within canon), but i truly can't be bothered to revisit it so i thought to put it out there. it's far from perfect or even really complete, but i hope you like it</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Early memories were a pale pink. Soft voices, fluffy blankets, and wands with equal competence to the ones who carried hers'. Those were the days when her mum's pink sweater was soft and inviting and her father's sub-par job was simply entertaining.Those were truly the days. Days of Muggle stories from her mother and tales of acceptance no matter what from her soft father.</p><p>How weak they were. How weak she had been.</p><p>The birth of her younger brother didn't put a damper on the pink blush of childhood, no, that honor went to her father and mother. Her father in the Department of Magical Maintenance. Where was his promotion, praise, sense of ambition? Thrown in the trash with the invitation to move to America for double the money. Soft Hufflepuff father, disgusting to think about. Her mother was even more so, making strange marks on thin parchment and selling the poor Muggle excuse for art for little to no money.</p><p>Dolores sometimes missed them, when she stopped to look back. She didn't miss her mother or her father of course, those useless sods, but she missed the perfection the pearlescent memories provided. Her fabricated perfection was much more appealing, however. Perfection where she was rich, with a family who loved her and friends who adored her and a cat waiting in her home instead of a father who got home late only to hit her.</p><p>Perfection where life was sweet and sugary, unlike the bile in the back of her throat.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
</p><p>Childhood memories were a vivid scarlet, rivaling the blood that rests on her palms and the Gryffindor banners she so despised. Screams and Muggle fistfights mixed with a magic outburst and a discovery that her younger brother was a Squib. No accidental magic at all in nine years; St Mungo's apologized profusely and Mrs. Umbridge decided in a split second which one of her kids was her favorite.</p><p>That was the beginning of the end she supposed, though seen hadn't seen it at the time. She had been so blind in so many ways. Dolores had never been particularly fond of her mother of course- what use was a Muggle in this world of magic- but the fact that said Muggle had produced a Squib child didn't sit well with her father.</p><p>Hits turned to jinxes and friends turned to awkward acquaintances. Pale pink cheeks ran blood red with handprints the color of the curses he threw. How deserving was she of the punishment, so far beyond the physical, of scorn? Pure contempt from someone who worked as the wizarding equivalent of a janitor. He who married a Muggle, then hated her because he only ever cared about himself. Not only was he useless, he was contradictory and contemptful, and his voice ran a scarlet that seeped like poison into her soul.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
</p><p>It was interspersed with brilliant silver however.</p><p>Meeting a pale boy with the most elegant eyes she had ever seen on her first trip to Diagon Alley. Being sorted into the great house of Slytherin to the slow clap and curious gaze of the same boy. This is where her full-color memories start. Maybe because the ones previous are repressed, maybe because the dust in her lungs has finally reached her head.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
</p><p>"Hello."</p><p>Never had she heard such a silky-smooth voice, or seen such silvery tones.</p><p>“Hi.” Her voice was fluttery and breathless, entirely too innocent for the stone cold faces of her surrounding housemates. Despite that, the boy gave her a mesmerising smile and reached out his hand in a gesture of unimaginable grace.</p><p>“Welcome to Slytherin Miss Umbridge. It's wonderful to meet you. I am Tom Riddle.”</p><p>Honestly, he could've introduced himself as Grindelwald and she wouldn't have minded. His voice grazed her ears, unnaturally giving her a molten-metal feel once more. She tentatively shook his hand, the remaining Sorting around her fading to a silence.</p><p>The rest of the night passed in a blur. An old man giving a speech, food appearing out of nowhere, a fat man leading the house she was now a part of to what was apparently the dungeon. She fell asleep in her new room that night, surrounded by people she knew better than to trust, Tom's alluring smile ingrained into her vision.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
</p><p>Days were sluggish, a pale green that heightened every day till an encounter with the (ever mysterious) Tom Riddle and faded as he neglected her for months on end. It repeated in an endless cycle. Color flashes, muted tones, meet, rinse, repeat.</p><p>Oh how refreshing a shower would be, as the grit in her cropped hair is now thicker than that of the Slytherin dungeons during her time there. Tom was one of the few who had spotless robes at all times, and she hadn't been the only one to notice. Because of this, gossip was easier than the girls in his fanclub and she mingled to find the details. Dolores’s number one source was a blond, self-titled fourth-in-command of the fanclub, whose mouth ran a little too much in the hopes of rising in the ranks.</p><p>“... And you promise you'll never tell anyone you heard it from me?” Her blue eyes glittered with trust that Dolores had carefully established. Silly Gryffindor. Dolores smiled at her, adjusting her deep green tie and meeting Tom's gorgeous gaze for a split second over the girl's shoulder.</p><p>“Of course. Now tell me everything you know.” The girl grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the mob’s earshot, then proceeded to walk down the hall as if they were more than passing schoolmates.</p><p>“So he's a third year, an orphan, and apparently very powerful.”</p><p>“Pureblood?”</p><p>She looked at Dolores, deadpan, as she snapped her fingers and stopped her walk. “Slytherin. Duh.” Dolores nodded, schooling her expression. She was thankful no one had asked about her blood so far.</p><p>“The snakes are too slippery to be anything else,” the blond said, frankly. She then grabbed both of Dolores' hands in hers and gave her a blinding, sunshine smile. “But you're different.”</p><p>Dolores felt her blood run cold. Different meant peculiar. Peculiar got people singled out. If she was singled out, people would know about her family. She would be ruined. She wrenched her hands away from the girl and gave a frigid smile.</p><p>“Oh, but I’m not different at all. I’m just like everyone else.” She grabbed the blond’s upper arms and pulled her in. “I could ruin you in a split second. So I suggest you run off to your unworthy obsessors and insist this never happened.” There was dull green fear in the girl's sapphire eyes as she turned and ran.</p><p>Something almost like guilt arose in her and she stared at the carpeted corridor, wondering if what she had done was truly a terrible mistake. Still caught up in her thoughts, she ran into a dark figure that grabbed her shoulders.</p><p>“Be careful Miss Umbridge,” murmured a voice that'd been echoing around her head for weeks. Tom smelled of mint and something else, sweet yet sharp, and suddenly all vague thoughts of guilt were forgotten.</p><p>He leaned in to whisper, a green-almost black murmur that made her pray to all the stars that he couldn’t hear her rapid-fire heartbeat. “That girl is so simple isn’t she? Honesty is often key, even for our goals. Lies are wicked things. I’m proud of you, love.”</p><p>Love. <em>Love.</em> <strong><em>Love.</em></strong></p><p>The world began to gleam a brilliant yellow.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
</p><p><em>Disgusting, in retrospect</em>, Dolores thinks to herself in a rare moment of complete lucidity. As filthy as the floor she now lies limp on. It all had seemed so beautiful, so bright. How quickly things change.</p><p>How was she supposed to have known that falling in love would look less like blushed cheeks and more like the swirling darkness of the patrolling dementors, every day inching closer to her soul.</p><p><br/>
</p>
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